The Good Old Days
by Azzandra
Summary: If the number of amusing anecdotes she'd collected was any indication, then Zidorah had lead a full life. This story has no epic battles, no great adventures, just the occasional funny joke, if you can find it.
1. The Blood Elf

As the sun set over Orgrimmar and the scorching day turned into thick, sweltering night, the taverns of the city filled with adventurers of the Horde, seeking a brief reprieve from their journeys. In one such tavern, filled with loud song and shouts, the sounds of various containers carrying various liquids being rapidly emptied, a small group, no more than three, was celebrating.

One was a troll, turquoise-skinned and with a shock of blue hair. He had the countenance of a shaman and the huge mace to show for it. The next was a blood elf woman, a mage, judging by her extravagantly colourful robes. And finally, an orc warrior in old chipped armor and a ferocious expression of happiness.

"Drink up, mon, da next round be on me," the troll said, just before taking a large swig of his beer. He then belched and added, "Be nobody sayin' Jan'ree don' know how ta treat his friends."

"Treat his friends to cheap swill, you mean," the orc laughed. However, his half-empty tankard seemed to contradict his words.

Only the blood elf mage seemed not to partake in her companions' good cheer, as she hadn't even touched her drink.

"What's wrong, Zidorah? Aren't you thirsty?" the orc asked, gesturing towards the gigantic tankard in front of her.

"I will drink when I please it," she replied, raising her chin haughtily. Her Orcish was lilted, when it should have been guttural, creating a jarring sort of accent, but her grammar was impeccable, hinting that she learned the language from books rather than by conversing with a native speaker.

"Don' tease da girl, Ogdor," the troll said, attempting to keep a straight face and failing.

The orc laughed heartily and turned his attention back to the troll. Zidorah furtively grabbed the tankard's handle and strained herself trying to lift it, but could barely budge it. She briefly leaned forward and considered sipping without lifting the large container, but she knew she'd end up with a faceful of froth and did not think her dignity could survive such circumstances.

"I think I've said this before," Ogdor started, as he stared intently at the table, "but we should never have gone to that cursed place."

Jan'ree and Zidorah sighed audibly, indicating that this was not only something Ogdor had said before, but something he'd said often.

"Give it a rest, mon," Jan'ree retorted as he meticulously swished his drink. "We be back from Outland now, so what'chu complainin' about?"

"I am simply saying that we missed many a glorious battle while we were away," Ogdor continued, unperturbed.

"We had plenty of battles on Outland, isn't that enough?" Zidorah muttered.

"Yes, yes," Ogdor grumbled. "But still, Outland is a dying, broken world. The truly glorious battles-- the ones that matter-- happen here, on Azeroth!"

"Ya be sayin' dat all da time, mon." Jan'ree shook his head. "An' each time ya sed it on Outland, ya be gettin' us in trouble wit' da natives."

"I don't see why they should get so offended," the orc muttered. "One should not be so hostile to the truth."

"Trut' or not, mon, ya be insultin' deir homes. How'd'chu expect dem ta react? Ain't dat right, girl?... Girl?"

But Zidorah was not paying attention to this conversation, instead staring off to the side as if something had caught her attention.

"Ya not be eavesdroppin' now, are ya, girl?" Jan'ree asked ruefully, mostly because she was ignoring him.

"Shh!"

"Oh no ya di'n't jus' shush me!" Jan'ree slammed his fist on the table; he did not seem as angry as he was incredulous, but the table still shook under the troll's considerable strength and a few other patrons still looked his way for a few brief moments before returning to their drinks. "Da girl di'n't just shush me!" he added, turning to Ogdor.

"I think she did, actually," Ogdor replied, lifting his drink to his lips to hide his smile.

"Will you two be quiet?" Zidorah hissed, clearly annoyed.

Jan'ree and Ogdor shared a confused look before they both turned to see what had caught Zidorah's interest.

The blood elf seemed clearly absorbed by the conversation two orcs at a nearby table were having. By their armor, they were city guards, probably off-duty. Jan'ree and Ogdor strained to hear what had caught the female's interest.

"...won't be solved soon," the first guard was saying.

"Probably never, if you ask me," the second snorted. "Too many resources are being wasted on this. The disappearances have all nearly stopped, we should be focusing on other things. Like the Alliance," he added darkly.

"Feh. They might be the ones responsible for this. This 'Brittlecog' is apparently a gnomish name."

At that very moment, Zidorah was on her feet and approaching the two orcs' table. Her friends soon scurried after her, utterly confused as to her behaviour and curious beyond belief.

"Excuse me," she said, as the two guards turned their befuddled gazes on her. "You mentioned a gnome named Brittlecog?"

"What's it to you?" one of the guards grumbled sourly.

"Ah, yes, well, you see..." She paused and took a deep breath. "I once knew a Revv Brittlecog in Dalaran. Perhaps this is the same person you are discussing?"

---

"I don' like dis one bit, mon," Jan'ree whispered to Zidorah as they waited.

After approaching the guards with her information, it took stunningly little time for the three of them to be brought to the guard's superior and then to the superior's superior, moving up through the hierarchy with alarming urgency. Finally, they were invited into the office of some sort of investigator who, by the size of the furniture, was most likely tauren.

"We haven't done anything wrong," Zidorah said coldly. Her voice wavered only slightly with uncertainty.

"As far as we know," Ogdor grumbled. Jan'ree and Zidorah threw him unsettled looks, but anything they intended to say was cut short by the door opening and a massive tauren walking in. Hardly anyone could ignore a tauren in any given room.

"Ah..." The tauren smiled benignly as he gazed down at Zidorah. "You must be the Zidorah Duskweaver. And they are..." His eyes drifted to the other two.

"Ogdor Thundermaul, son of Tagor."

"Jan'ree of da Darkspear tribe."

"Of course." The tauren gestured towards a large bench for them to sit down. "And I am Ollan Rivermane. I am also an investigator in the case of the disappearances."

This statement was met with three equally blank looks.

"Of the spellcasters?" the tauren added. "Surely you know. Many mages and warlocks have been disappearing these past few months."

"Sorry, mon, we been in Outland fo' some time--"

Ogdor snorted and muttered something that sounded like "...big waste of time..." before Zidorah clicked her staff against the floor for silence.

"--so we been outta da loop."

"Ah. I see." The tauren frowned. "Well, then, I suppose I should explain. For the past few months, various mages and warlocks have gone missing," he said, ending in awkward silence.

"Ya, mon, we gathered," Jan'ree interjected glibly. "What be all dis wit' a gnome?"

"Of course, of course." Ollan cleared his throat. "During the course of investigating a recent disappearance, we managed to find a witness who overheard the victim stating she was going to meet with one 'Revv Brittlecog'. Apparently, what we didn't know was that various spellcasters had been disappearing from the Alliance as well, apparently in even greater number."

"That's all you managed to find out in... how many months of investigation was it?" Ogdor asked, raising an eyebrow.

Ollan looked distinctly uncomfortable.

"Yes, well... we were originally looking into some very promising leads and--"

"Ya blamed da Alliance, ya mean." Jan'ree sighed and shook his head.

"Well, y-yes," Ollan stuttered. "But at the time it seemed very likely--" He cut off abruptly and tried regaining his composure. "Still, even if they, as a whole, are not responsible, we know one of their numbers is--"

"No, he's not," Zidorah interrupted. "Master Brittlecog is dead."

"What?"

"What?"

"Wat?"

Three confused pairs of eyes found their way to the elf female.

"How can you possibly know that?" Ollan roared.

"Oh, yes, quite dead." Zidorah nodded. "Apparently, he never left Dalaran before it was destroyed by Archimonde. Absolutely refused to budge. The Scourge itself couldn't rout him out."

The confused looks turned into bewildered ones.

"Seriously, have you ever tried catching a gnome? They're _tiny_. They can squeeze out of just about anything."

"Alright-- but maybe he escaped Dalaran by some other means?" Ollan suggested.

Zidorah snorted at this suggestion.

"And not let anyone know? Trust me, that was not Master Brittlecog's nature."

"Then what _was_ his nature?" the tauren insisted.

Zidorah considered it for a moment then replied:

"He was a jerk."

---

That night, Zidorah was well-aware that she should not have been making any life-altering decisions. She knew that she was young, barely at the beginning of her magical studies, that this was the first time she'd ever been anywhere alone, without servants of family members breathing down the back of her neck (but from a polite, inobtrusive distance) and the very, very first time she'd tasted alcohol.

She was fairly sure that when her cousin found out about this, he would be very disappointed and never leave her side again.

"Koltira will be so... so mad with me..." she muttered, trying hard not to slur. She did not want to sound drunk, even if she was.

"Who's that?" the human propping her upright asked.

"My cousin... who will be very, very mad with me," she replied.

They were walking. Probably in a straight line, though in her current state she couldn't really tell for sure.

"Is she pretty?" the human continued his questioning. He had an arm around her waist and even though she knew she would probably fall without his support, she still thought it was untoward of him.

"Yes, he is," Zidorah replied once she'd processed the question. "He is very, very pretty."

The human grunted unhappily, though Zidorah couldn't understand why. Would he have been happier to find out her cousin was ugly?

That was the last thing Zidorah remembered before waking up the next day around noon, face-down on some sort of ottoman. Her head not only felt like someone had separated it from her body, dug out everything in her skull, replaced it with straw and large rocks that did not quite fit and then sewed it back on her neck, but had also done a very poor job of it.

She lifted her head just in time to come face to face with a blue-eyed, balding gnome. The next few seconds were pure agony as the gnome turned around and yelled from the top of his tiny little lungs:

"Eric, you were right! I should have trusted your judgement!"

And that's how Zidorah found out that one side effect of being roughly knee-high to most other races was the development of a very loud voice that carried very far.

---

"Stop snickering! It was my first hangover! Now where was I?"

---

It was only later in the afternoon, after she was taken to a nice, dark room with padded floors that hushed every step and given some very strong tea that she found out she'd been hired without her knowledge or permission.

"What do you mean I'm Brittlecog's lab assistant? I don't even know him!"

"Sure ye do, lass," the dwarven woman explained calmly. "It's a great honour tah be Master Brittlecog's assistant. Why, students would rend each other tah pieces like wild beasts for th' opportunity!"

"But I never agreed to anything," she insisted.

"Eric said ye did."

"Who _is_ this Eric?" she asked, gripping her teacup like a lifeline.

"He brought ye in last night. Drunk as a bachelor uncle on Winter's Veil, ye were," the dwarf said wistfully as she nodded.

"But-- but why did he bring me? I don't understand..." Zidorah whined. Her headache was making a forceful comeback.

"Oh, tch, funny thing, that. Master Brittlecog's been searching for a new assistant (he already has two, ye see), ever since he's extended the lab. Las' night, he was complainin' about not bein' able tah find another assistant with the proper credentials--" Here she made a facial expression that showed how little she thought of the credentials in question. "--so Eric bet the ol' man that he could find someone before noon, today."

"Credentials? What credentials?_ What credentials_?!" Zidorah asked, desperately.

The dwarf snorted, swished her tea and told her.

---

"So?" Ogdor burst out. "What were these credentials?"

Zidorah seemed hesitant to reply.

"Ya can't stop da story like dat, girl," Jan'ree chimed.

"Yes, yes, that's right!" Ollan nodded, as well.

"Fine," Zidorah sighed and relented. "'Aesthetically pleasing, moderately smart.'"

"Wait-- aesthetically--?" Ogdor did a double take. "And these were the requirements for _laboratory assistant_?"

"Look, he was a brilliant Archmage of the Kirin Tor, alright?" Zidorah crossed her arms and stared murderously at the floor. "He always told people that he can do his own lab work, as long as the view was nice."

"And the view, we take it, was nice?" Ollan raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, sure. I think I even had a picture, once. It was me, the dwarven woman-- her name was Deidre Steelfist-- and a human, Rovana Callidian."

"And he chose his assistants judging solely by physical endowments?" Ollan asked, staring off in the distance as if the concept intrigued him greatly.

Ogdor and Jan'ree threw him exasperated looks.

"Ya, mon. Dat was da point of da story," the troll spoke slowly, as if dealing with a slightly dimwitted child. "Can we wrap dis up befo' dinnah?"

"Ah, yes, of course." The tauren cleared his throat and clasped his hands together, trying to appear professional. "Even though Brittlecog might be dead, we still must find out more about him and his work."

"Why?" Zidorah asked.

"Well, the point remains that his name was still mentioned by the victim of a crime," Ollan reasoned. "We must discover any connection there might be to him."

"Wait, 'we'?" Zidorah raised an eyebrow. "Aren't _you_ the big, important investigator in this case?"

"Of course." He smiled widely. "And as the investigator, I can very well have you arrested for obstruction of justice if you don't cooperate."


	2. The Wolpertinger

"Don't worry, there's absolutely _no chance_ of crashing and turning into a giant firey ball of helium," the goblin assured, gesturing towards the zeppelin. His face was split into a gigantic smile that took up most of his face.

"Wait a minute..." Zidorah frowned as she looked down at the goblin. "Why would people think that's possible? Helium isn't flammable."

The goblin's smile faltered. He cleared his throat and started wringing his hands.

"Oh... er... yes. Yes, you're quite right. Helium absolutely does not explode. We have absolutely never had a case of that ever happening. Absolutely."

Zidorah stared for a minute, not entirely sure if she wanted to know what the goblin was hiding and, if it was what she suspected, how in the name of the Sunwell did they ever manage to set fire to a non-flammable gas?

Alas, before she could say anything, the goblin turned on his heels and disappeared into the zeppelin.

"Should we be worried?" Ogdor's voice rumbled from behind her.

Zidorah looked over her shoulder, considered telling the truth, but finally answered:

"No. _Absolutely_ not." After another second, she added on a more belligerent tone, "And you stop it!"

"I ain't sed anyt'ing, girl." Jan'ree raised his hands appeasingly, but his face was wavering and a smile threatened to take over.

"Well, stop not saying anything so loudly."

"I jus' be not saying, girl, that ya nevah look so..."

"So what?" she snapped.

"Giddy," Ogdor supplied.

"Cheery," Jan'ree added, nodding.

"Girlishly excited."

"Buoyed."

Both Ogdor and Zidorah turned to stare at Jan'ree.

"That's a good word," Ogdor said admiratively.

"Yah, mon. What, ya t'ink trolls be stupid?" Jan'ree crossed his arms proudly, this time grinning widely.

Zidorah raised an eyebrow and looked over at Ogdor. He nodded solemnly. 'Do it.'

"Jan'ree," she started sweetly. "Can you repeat something after me?"

"Yah, sho'." His voice faltered almost imperceptibly.

"Say 'are'."

Jan'ree's face fell.

"Or, failing that, say 'is'."

Now the troll frowned, looking deeply displeased.

"Dat be low, mon," he muttered unhappily.

Zidorah smiled smugly as at the same moment, a bell rang, signaling that the zeppelin heading for the Undercity had arrived.

"See you on board, then," she said and turned on her heels, followed closely by Ogdor, who was doing a poor job of smothering his laughter.

Jan'ree stayed behind for a moment longer. Glancing around to see that nobody was looking, he then opened his mouth and tried to coax out a series of sounds.

"A-a-r-r-- aww-rr--"

Finally, he gave up with a sigh and slunk off to the zeppelin.

---

"Still," Ogdor reflected, "I don't recall ever seeing you so happy."

They were gathered on the deck. The zeppelin hadn't caught full speed yet, so the wind wasn't quite strong enough to bother them and the view was pleasant, as they were quickly putting distance between themselves and Orgrimmar. The first sea breezes were already starting to put a dent into the oppressive heat of the Barrens.

"Well, I do admit I find the prospect of seeing my old friends again... interesting."

"Ya grin any widah, ya jaw be fallin' off."

Zidorah suddenly turned serious and threw Jan'ree a dark look.

"Look, those years in Dalaran were the best of my life and they were the best friends I ever had."

"Aww, ya mean dat ain't us?" Jan'ree gave a very convincing fake-pout.

Zidorah narrowed her eyes at him.

"I have no idea what would ever suggest to you such an idea." But the corners of her mouth tugged upwards slightly.

"At any rate," Ogdor cleared his throat, "Why the Undercity?"

"Well, Eric is the only one whose location I know."

"He's undead?"

"The name they prefer is 'Forsaken', actually. But yes, Eric is very much undead. He's the only one I've contacted since Dalaran's destruction."

"Ah. And the rest?" Ogdor asked.

"Well... Rovana's aunt in Dalaran might know her whereabouts... Deidre is dead... as for Thomas, I really couldn't say. Rovana might know." The last sentence was added quietly and begrudgingly.

Ogdor picked up on this right away. "What's this, then? You don't expect her to cooperate?"

"No, not really," Zidorah sighed.

"Good t'ing we goin' fully armed, den," Jan'ree commented, hefting his mace for emphasis.

Zidorah looked horrified. "You did _not_ just suggest threatening physical violence against Rovana!"

"Wat?" Jan'ree shrugged. "'Jus' sayin', girl. Humans be squishy."

Zidorah shook her head, at a loss for words.

"Anyway," she said eventually, "it'll be nice seeing Eric again."

"How come we haven't heard of him before?" Ogdor asked, genuinely curious. "After all, he is Horde and an old friend. Surely you can contact him whenever you please."

Zidorah furrowed her brows, genuinely considering the answer.

"I guess... Eric is the kind of friend whose company you enjoy only in small doses," she said after some time, shrugging. "Some people can't stand him, but... he grows on you. Like mould grows on a loaf of bread."

"Or like a dimwitted pet grows on a hunter?" Ogdor suggested.

Zidorah considered this as well, then answered, "No. Definitely like mould."

---

The first time Zidorah ever managed to escape the sights of her cousin and visit Dalaran alone, she got horribly lost.

Her original destination had been the Eventide and the fountain she'd heard so much about. Unfortunately, she took a wrong turn somewhere and by the time she realised how utterly lost she was, she also became tired and in desperate need of a nice sit-down and maybe a pedicure.

She eventually stopped in front of what appeared to be an inn. It was called "A Hero's Welcome" and she briefly debated with herself whether being a hero was prerequisite to being a customer. Before she could decide whether to stay or move on, though, she heard someone clearing their throat behind her, in a clear bid for her attention.

She turned to see a blond human male, smiling at her in a way that sent alarm bells off in her head. He did not seem particularly threatening-- after all, on avarage, humans were a fair bit shorter than high elves and that brought her to the same height as him-- and he was dressed in fine clothes, though a bit too froofy even by elven standards. Perhaps that was what made her suspicious. He was trying maybe a little too hard to look trustworthy and harmless.

"Is the lady lost?" he asked in a voice that sounded so well-oiled, it made Zidorah feel greasy.

"Why is this any of your concern?" she shot back, raising her chin and looking down at him.

"Because, m'lady," he began, his expression turning completely serious, "I consider it my duty as a gentleman to help all ladies in distress."

"...Really?" Zidorah was taken aback by his apparent sincerity. Now that she looked closer, he did have a unique sense of style that he wore well and a certain manner that she found reassuring. "I mean, er... I'm not exactly in distress," she added quickly and tried to appear nonchalant. "I'm just... new to the city and I've decided to get more closely acquainted with it."

Eric smiled and nodded politely.

"Of course, of course. Then, might I invite you in for a drink and a rundown of the best sights this city has to offer?" He gestured towards the inn.

Zidorah looked him up and down.

"Alright," she acquiesced. "But only water."

"Certainly-- oh, I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch your name."

"Zidorah Duskweaver."

She extended her hand and he leaned over and kissed it with a flourish. Zidorah had to choke down a giggle.

"And I," he said while still hunched over slightly, as if in a bow, "am Eric Wyliss. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Duskweaver."

---

"I had absolutely no intention of getting drunk aroung him, of course, but..." Zidorah sighed. "Eric always was a shrewd one..."

---

"Hey, Eric, your delivery from Ironforge arrived yesterday," the bartender informed him gruffly.

"Why, thank you, Stefen!" Eric said, turning and smiling at the man.

Stefen just shrugged, then bent down behind the bar and picked up what looked to be a slightly-larger-than-avarage tankard. He brought it to Eric and Zidorah's table.

"Just keep good track of it," he advised Eric. "You know how hard it is to get rid of these things once they infest a place. Remember Brewfest last year?"

Eric smiled widely and answered, "_Nobody_ remembers Brewfest, Stefen. That's what makes it fun."

Stefen seemed suddenly embarrassed and slunk off, retreating behind the bar.

"What's this?" Zidorah pointed to the tankard, overcome by curiosity.

"Well, _this_ is a tankard," Eric answered with a friendly smile, "but what's really interesting is what's inside."

"What's that, then?" Zidorah quirked an eyebrow.

"A Wolpertinger."

"A what-now?"

"Wolpertinger," Eric repeated. "They look like hares, but they also have wings, antlers and fangs."

Zidorah stared for a moment before she responded to that.

"You're making this up, aren't you?" she finally burst, absolutely incredulous.

"Oh, no, not this particular thing."

"Then show me."

"Sorry, love, you can't see it unless you get drunk."

"Are you... are you trying to make me drink alcohol? Because if you are, this is the poorest excuse I--"

"No, no!" Eric raised his hands in an appeasing gesture. "Nobody can see Wolpertingers when they're sober! It's just how they are."

The blood elf pursed her lips.

"I bet there's nothing in there," she said, pointing with her chin towards the tankard.

"Are you sure?" Eric grinned and tapped the tankard. A skittering sound, seemingly originating from inside the tankard, could be heard.

"Oh!" Zidorah was taken aback by this. "You mean you have a poor little defenseless animal locked up in there?"

"You make it sound so cruel, but really, they love tankards. It's the smell of beer, apparently. Keeps them nice and mellow." Eric shrugged. "They're actually quite cute. I'm sorry you won't get the chance to see it. Wolpertingers are very hard to catch. Drunks are the only ones who can see them and they aren't known for their excellent physical coordination."

Zidorah bit her lip thoughtfully.

"How drunk... would you have to be," she asked slowly, "to catch a glimpse of one?"

---

"...And the next day I woke up as Master Brittlecog's assistant."

They'd moved below deck at some point during the story. Jan'ree was sitting cross-legged on the floor next to a vending machine while Ogdor was perusing said machine's choice in drinks. Zidorah stood little ways away, leaning against a wall.

"So, ya evah see da Wolpahtingah?" the troll prodded.

"Hm? Oh, yes. In fact, Eric let me keep it," Zidorah answered with a slight smile.

"Where is it now?" Ogdor asked off-handedly.

"I still have it. In fact..." Zidorah leaned down and made as if scooping up a small animal off the floor and craddling it to her chest. "I named him Fluffy and we've been together ever since."

Both Ogdor and Jan'ree turned to look at her wide-eyed.

"Ya be yankin' mah chain," Jan'ree spoke after a while, even he not sounding convinced of his own words.

"Am I?" Zidorah raised an eyebrow at this statement, but her expression was otherwise inscrutable. She moved her palm as if petting the invisible animal at her chest.

Jan'ree opened his mouth and seemed ready to dispute the existence of her Wolpertinger, but he realised now that he had never been all that perceptive when drunk and that a small, hare-like creature with wings and antlers, sadly, would not have drawn his attention as much as the next mug full of alcohol.

Finally, he swallowed hard and turned to Ogdor.

"Dere be any beer in dat t'ing, mon?" He gestured towards the vending machine.

"I'm looking for it, I'm looking," came the rushed response.


	3. The Undercity

They reached their destination early the next morning. As they disembarked the zeppelin, a pale, sickly sun was just rising over Tirisfal Glades, just as anemic as the landscape before it.

Jan'ree and Ogdor were dragging their feet groggily after Zidorah. The blood elf looked close to skipping as they descended the zeppelin tower's ramp. This made her companions shoot death glares in her direction.

"Did the two of you sleep well last night?" she asked cheerily as they walked towards the Undercity.

"...lying little elf wench..." came the disgruntled mutters.

Zidorah only smiled widely at this.

"My, my, but you did have a lot to drink last night, didn't you?" she spoke, just loud enough to make Jan'ree wince in pain.

"Ya coulda stopped us," the troll pointed out gruffly. He was slightly more hunched over than usual and his eyes were narrowed against the wane light.

"Oh, but you seemed to be having so much _fun_," Zidorah replied, her smile turning wicked.

"...stupid imaginary bunnies..."

Zidorah cackled wickedly and her perky walk turned into a skip.

---

The Undercity had a most unsettling quality for visitors. Something-- or rather, everything about it-- contributed to this other-worldly quality: the smells, a nose-clogging odor of decay that oermeated the air, topped by the more stringent smell of preserving substances and whatever experiments the Apocatherium had left behind after Putress' unfortunate betrayal; the fumes over the strange green liquid that flowed through the sewers; the cold (it was a common saying among member of the Horde that the Undercity was as cold as death); it all meshed together into a city that was not quite hostile to life, but quietly disapproving of it.

As they made their way through the city, all these impressions were intensified by the bizarre empty echoes of the city. The battle that had raged recently had been like an overly-loud noise in a forest, scaring the local wildlife into silence. All conversations were hushed and all the weary inhabitants looked on with apprehension at strangers, their hollow, decayed eyes blank and guarded.

For this reason, Zidorah's sharp soprano voice cut through the air so efficiently, that nearly every head in the Trade Quarter turned in her direction-- some of which were not even attached to bodies after this.

"How hard can it be to find Eric? Everywhere he goes, he knows so many people, that practically everybody should know him, as well."

"Keep ya voice down, girl," Jan'ree hissed, wincing.

"What?" Zidorah turned to look at the troll. "Is it a secret we're looking for Eric?"

"No, Zidorah," Ogdor placated. The low temperatures of the Undercity had done wonders for his hangover and the undescribable smell of what he guessed (and hoped) was formaldehyde had been quite sobering. "But on top of your voice, the echoes can be quite painful," he added after a while.

"Oh." A very short moment passed before Zidorah suddenly caught up with what Ogdor had said and unleashed the full pitch of her voice on her companions: "What is that supposed to mean? Are you saying my voice is annoying?"

Ogdor and Jan'ree winced at the same time. Outside, Zidorah's voice hadn't been such a problem. It had plenty of space in which to dissipate. But indoors it bounced of the walls and came right back to the source, catching two very hung-over Hordelings in the crossfire.

Luckily, they were saved from further auditive assault by someone clearing their throat (and possibly grinding a bag of rusty nails at the same time). A Forsaken in unusually clean and well-kept robes had sidled up to them.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't help but overhear you talking," he spoke, drumming his bony fingers together. His voice meandered between pitches, like every syllable was taken from different words stolen from other conversations and sewn together like the phonetic equivalent of an abomination. "You are looking for Eric, I understand? Would that be Rank Eric, by any chance?"

"Eric Wyliss, actually," Zidorah nodded, now much calmer. "Do you know him?"

"Everybody knows Rank Eric," the Forsaken answered in what could charitably be called a deadpan voice. "As you say, he is part of what might be described as a... complex social network."

"Oh, I see."

"In fact, my associates and I were looking for him as well, you see," the Forsaken continued.

With uncanny stealth, four more Forsaken seemingly coalesced around the group. They obviously deferred to the one speaking, as they stayed quiet and otherwise kept their heads down.

"I don't suppose you're friends of his?" the undead man asked in what he probably intended to be a menacing tone but only managed to make sound like a boy's throat being savagely attacked by puberty.

Jan'ree and Ogdor did not make any overt motions, but they now seemed to be a generous distance away from Zidorah.

For her part, the blood elf was oblivious.

"Oh, but I am!" she answered eagerly. "I've been friends with him for a very long time!"

Jan'ree had to stifle a groan. For all her occasional flashes of brilliance, Zidorah seemed at times to have the social grace of a slightly brain damaged murloc.

Come to think of it, hadn't it been a lack of social grace that had facilitated their friendship?

---

It was high noon in Orgrimmar. The streets were empty save for a few unfortunate individuals who clung to the receding shadows. The air was still and simmering with heat. The wind, instead of providing relief, only moved the heat around.

This was in the early days of Ogdor and Jan'ree's acquaintance, mere weeks after they'd met during a raid and decided to travel back to Orgrimmar together. The days had been filled with alternating periods of lively conversation and companionable silence. As they sat in the inn's bar that day, however, they'd come to a horrible conclusion: they did not consider one another at all interesting.

The issue was not that they disliked each other. On the contrary, they found one another quite tolerable. They fought well together and they were both agreeable fellows. The problem was that they found each other exceedingly dull. It was, apparently, quite possible to have _too much_ in common with another person and they both realised this.

"So, mon," Jan'ree said, for the tenth time that hour, trying to come up with a subject for conversation.

Ogdor merely grunted. He was drawing a blank as well.

Luckily, at that very moment, through the door stepped a tall, blonde, staff-wielding blood elf with an expression of confidence that belied her small frame and unimposing physique.

"Look, mon," Jan'ree pointed the blood elf out to Ogdor. Blood elves were still a bit of a novelty among the Horde. If the inn hadn't been empty save for them and the barkeep, she surely would have made every head in the room turn.

Ogdor turned to look at her, the only sign of surprise he showed being a slightly quirked eyebrow.

"A mage?" the orc asked derisively.

"Careful, mon," Jan'ree smirked, "dat stick look mighty dangerous."

"Indeed. She looks quite fearsome. Why, I daresay I would be quite hesitant to face her in battle."

Jan'ree and Ogdor proceeded to laugh, more out of a relief that the silence had been broken than out of any genuine contempt towards blood elves. Thus they failed to notice that the blood elf in question had not only heard them, but had apparently understood what they were saying. She stomped over to their table, crossed her arms, glared at the two, opened her mouth...

...and the words she spoke were _probably_ in Orcish. _Maybe_.

Jan'ree and Ogdor burst into a new fit of laughter, this one a great deal more hysterical than the first.

This did not last for long, however, for in the next minute, Ogdor was bleating. Before Jan'ree could pick his jaw off the floor and respond in kind, the only protest he could voice was "baaah".

The barkeep, a large orc, had stopped just short of the table. His intention _had_ been to refill Ogdor and Jan'ree's drinks, but now that his customers seemed indisposed and the angry blood elf responsible for their current condition had turned towards him, strange lights flickering between her fingers, he wisely decided to back up very slowly and find something to do in another room.

Long story short, after the two had regained their original form, they decided to let bygones be bygones (as long as she mentioned these events to _no one_) and offered to buy her a drink.

"What'll you be having?" Ogdor asked, gesturing towards the bar.

Zidorah stared for a moment, deciphering his words, then smiled and said in extremely bad Orcish:

"I will take milk."

Ogdor's eyebrows rose at this and he was ready to shoot his mouth off again, but Jan'ree caught his eye and shook his head almost imperceptibly, wide-eyed and worried. Finally, the orc relented and placed the order.

"Barkeep! Refill these drinks... and get the female a... glass of milk," he added dejectedly.

Zidorah merely sat there, a superior smile etched on her face.

---

"Do you know where to find Eric?" she asked the Forsaken.

"No. Therein lies the problem," he answered. "Should you find him, however, do pass on the message that Michael Sheenan is still expecting a refund."

The Forsaken seemed ready to depart along with his goons, when Zidorah sniffed with superiority.

"I am not a postal service," she said, making Jan'ree and Ogdor nearly drop their jaws so far down they'd never find them again; the Forsaken froze in shock.

"Ah, no," Ogdor interjected, grabbing Zidorah by the arm and pulling her away. "She's not, but we'll make sure he gets your message."

Jan'ree had already rounded the corner as Ogdor dragged Zidorah unceremoniously in the same direction.

"Hey, what are you doing?" she hissed furiously.

Ogdor released her and she started straightening her clothes and hair as she threw the orc death glares.

"Ya nearly got da lot of us killed, ya ditz," Jan'ree admonished.

"That's ridiculous. They were acquaintaces of Eric. They wouldn't have hurt us."

Jan'ree gave Zidorah an incredulous look. He then turned to Ogdor, who snorted.

"Dis Eric be too much trouble if ya ask me, girl."

"Which Eric? Me, Eric?"

With an almost audible snap, three different heads turned towards a Forsaken in priest robes, skulking in the shadows along the walls.

"Hullo, Dory," he added with a a small wave and a rotten-toothed smile.

---

Eric led them through a series of twisted side-tunnels. At some point or another, the tunnels would get tight enough to cause a great deal of discomfort for Ogdor. While Jan'ree was lanky and adequately flexible enough to get by, more than once Ogdor feared he would remain stuck in place as he passed through a particularly narrow passageway or a portion with a notably lower ceiling.

"You made some pretty big friends there, Dory," Eric commented at some point. He spoke in perfectly clear, colloquial Orcish, showing a grasp of the language that brought Zidorah's bizarre accent and sometimes stilted turns of phrase to shame.

Jan'ree still wondered, though, why Eric would speak in Orcish to his old friend. He would have expected them to converse in Common or Thalassian, both of which were languages that Zidorah had a better grasp of. Perhaps this was for his and Ogdor's benefit, so they would not feel excluded from the conversation, but that seemed to come in contradiction with the fact that Eric hadn't so much as said a word to them. When they'd introduced themselves, he just grunted and signaled for them to follow him. Strange.

"So where we be goin', mon?" Jan'ree asked Eric, deciding on the direct approach.

"Just to this cozy little set-up I have," Eric responded vaguely.

"These tunnels-- what are they used for?" Ogdor queried as he forced his way through another narrow spot. He brought up the rear of the group, right behind Jan'ree.

"Oh, you really don't want to ask questions like that," the undead replied, throwing a knowing glance over his shoulder. "They never lead to anything good."

"Is that a threat?" the orc growled low.

Eric laughed at this, a scratchy, shrill sound that sounded more like a dog after its tail is stepped on, than anything.

"Eric doesn't threaten people," Zidorah clarified. "He loathes making exact promises."

"That's true!"

"By da way, mon. Dis guy be lookin' fo' you. Somet'ing 'bout a refund o' somet'ing."

"Michael Sheenan, yes," Eric muttered. "Bad piece of business, that. I assume he sent you to guarantee this refund is granted?" His voice was low and cold as he said this, the last vestiges of his life gone from its inflections.

"No, mon, we be Zidorah's friends. We just ain't be wantin' no trouble wit' dat guy," Jan'ree replied, his brow furrowing.

Eric stopped, forcing his companions to stop as well. He turned and looked at Zidorah, staring her right in the eye (though it was hard to tell, what with his pupil-less empty eye sockets).

"That true, Dory?" he asked the blood elf, who looked at him, mildly confused.

"Of course it's true. They're my friends from Orgrimmar. Who did you think they were?" she replied reproachfully.

"Oh! Well," Eric seemed to slouch a little lower, perhaps the undead version of relaxing, and he rubbed his hands together, "this changes everything."

He reached to the side and tapped the wall and, where before there had been only stone, a battered wooden door appeared.

"Please," he gestured with one hand while opening the door with his other, "step into my office."

Ogdor seemed ready to commit murder.

---

Author's note: Thanks for the reviews, folks. Hopefully you'll enjoy this chapter and the next; Eric is possibly my favorite character of the Dalaran gang and I do feel a little bit bad for my favoritism.


	4. The Entrepreneur

When Eric invited them into his office, it appeared he was not being facetious. Beyond the door was a cavernous room. Its stone walls were unevenly chiseled, either because the job was left unfinished or performed by someone with very poor work ethics, but the furniture was in good condition, in spite of its age. An imposing desk sat roughly in front of the door and beyond it were shelves stacked with leather-bound tomes. To the side, in a darker corner, lay a cot and in the other corner of the room, a low table and a few chairs. Light was provided by two decorative lamps, casting the room in a slightly blue tinge.

"So this is your new secret lair?" Zidorah sniffed disdainfully at her surroundings.

"I make do," Eric replied modestly.

"Yes, you always seem to 'make do' some way or another," she sighed.

"I see you've made some new friends," Eric changed the subject suddenly, gesturing towards Ogdor and Jan'ree. "I don't believe I've properly introduced myself. Eric Wyliss. And you are?"

Ogdor sat on one of the chairs while Jan'ree lifted himself on the table.

"I be Jan'ree and dis be Ogdor. But I got a question, mon."

"Please, do ask." Eric sat at his desk and clasped his hands while trying to appear as congenial as possible. It was a hard effect to achieve when one was an animate corpse, but Eric managed to pull it off.

"Why dat guy called ya 'Rank Eric'?"

Zidorah gave the troll and indignant glare.

"Jan'ree, that was unnecessary."

"'Cause ya know," Jan'ree ammended, "ya don' smell nearly as rotten as some of da otha' undead folk."

Eric chortled at this comment in a passable approximation of a warm laugh.

"I believe that nickname refers more to my perceived business practices than my personal body odor," he said eventually.

"Ah, so that hasn't changed," Zidorah muttered while inspecting the shelves behind Eric's desk. The Forsaken swiveled his head around to an angle not normally possible for the living to glare at her. "What?" the blood elf shrugged. "I remember when they called you 'Wily Wyliss' back in Dalaran." She removed one of the books from the shelves and opened it, thus discovering that they were, in fact, ledgers. The numbers she saw made her eyes boggle slightly.

"Dalaran, yes," Eric sighed. "Good days, working for Brittlecog."

---

Revv Brittlecog stared down at the satchel in his hands, deeply displeased, then looked straight up.

"Mister-- I'm sorry, what was your name? No, it doesn't matter. Look, you useless little dust-peddler, I want whoever is responsible for this to come forward right now and apologise for this transgression. I mean, do you _know_ who I am? Do you have any idea the kind of pull I have with the Kirin Tor? I will have you sheeped and shipped faster than you can sneeze if this doesn't get fixed right away."

The reagent vendor, a scrawny young human boy barely out of adolescence, stared down at the gnome, his jaw moving soundlessly. He was terrified of the gnome mage, because everybody knew that being knee-high was rarely an impediment in performing a polymorph spell and at least part of the boy's terror was caused by the fact that all non-magical Dalaranese had a deep-seated fear of being turned into a sheep and sent off to a farm. Strictly speaking, many thought such procedures were nothing more than urban myths, but looking down at the littlest, angriest archmage to have set foot in the store, it was starting to feel like a distinct possibility.

"Milord, I have no idea-- I-- I don't-- What seems to be the problem?" the vendor finally squeaked out.

"This so-called 'arcane powder' you've sold me is as about as arcane as household dust!" the gnome screamed and threw the small satchel across the room. It his the wall and flopped to the ground, raising clouds of yellow particles.

"I'm sorry, I'm not in charge of--"

"What seems to be the problem?"

Revv Brittlecog turned around to see another human had slithered soundlessly into the room and, with hands clasped behind his back and an affable smile on his face, he was looking down at the gnome with utmost respect.

"You!" Brittlecog pointed a shaking little hand at the human. "Are you the owner?"

"No, not at all," the human bowed modestly as he spoke. "I am but Eric Wyliss, the supervisor for this shop while the true owner is away on more important errands. How may I help you?"

"You've tried to swindle me!" Brittlecog roared. "I demand reparations!"

"Swindle you?" Eric asked, sounding and looking genuinely shocked. "This respectable establishment?" he continued, outraged.

"Yes," Brittlecog responded, his rage dampening slightly. "I came here to buy arcane powder and what I received in place was... that."

Eric, raising his eyebrows, moved towards the wall and picked up the satchel Brittlecog had flung against it. Inspecting it closely, he stirred the powder, raised a finger to observe it closely and weighed the bag thoughtfully with one hand.

"Ah, I see now," he said after some time. "A mere case of staff incompetence. This is flour."

Revv Brittlecog blinked. He stared at Eric for a long while, then turned to the boy, who looked just as dumbstruck as he felt.

"I... beg your pardon?" the gnome, now mollified, asked.

"Cornmeal, actually," Eric added. "Strange thing, that. I suppose Milton confused our inventory with his grocery list. Didn't you, Milton?"

The boy, Milton, struggled for words for a few seconds, before finally settling on nodding hesitantly.

"Most mages wouldn't have even noticed the difference," Eric continued cheerily. "You, sir, are a man of great intellectual prowess."

Revv Brittlecog stared for a short while longer before he smiled widely and replied:

"And you, sir, are a man of great use to me."

---

"I don't understand," Ogdor groused eventually. "Cornmeal?"

"It was a scam," Zidorah sighed. "Arcane powder is a reagent usually used in casting a spell called Arcane Brilliance, which literally increases the intellect of everyone in the group you cast it on. It thus allows a magic wielder to more efficiently tap into arcane energies. When he worked at the reagent shop, Eric used to switch the powder for cornmeal."

"The spell worked with cornmeal?" the orc furrowed his brows, now thoroughly confused. Still, on an orc, any expression looks ferocious-- even confusion.

"No, Ogdor, it didn't," Zidorah sighed again, pinching the bridge of her nose.

"But the thing was, arcane powder is pretty much identical in appearance to cornmeal," Eric explained. "Most mages don't even notice the difference and cast the spell anyway. The spell, of course, doesn't work, but because they _expect_ it to work, they don't notice that it doesn't."

"And what is the purpose of this... subterfuge?" Ogdor continued.

"Profit," Eric replied bluntly. "Cornmeal is much, much cheaper than arcane powder. My profit margin was huge."

"But ya trick di'n't work on dat leetle gnome," Jan'ree taunted.

"No, it didn't always work," Eric shrugged. "But when it didn't, it was easy enough to convince displeased customers that a mistake had been made. They were usually appeased by this, but I must admit, Brittlecog was the first one to be so impressed with my way of running business that he offered me a job."

"In other words, he needed a liar and a thief," Zidorah clarified. "Which Eric always was and probably always will be."

"Those are some very harsh words to call a man of the cloth," Eric reprimanded, brushing dust off his priestly robes.

"Oh, _please_," Zidorah scoffed. "I'm pretty sure it burns your feet when you step on hallowed ground. I don't know what scam you're running this time--"

"Now you're just being hurtful," the Forsaken interrupted, sounding utterly miserable. "Is it so hard to believe that I have chosen this path to better the fate of the Forsaken and repay my debt of gratitude to Lady Sylvanas?"

"_Yes," _the blood elf replied unequivocally.

Eric seemed genuinely distressed by this reply, but shrugged.

"What can I say? Business can be... dangerous at times. Lots of unsavory characters running around--"

"Including you," Zidorah interjected.

"--and it helps being able to fix myself up," Eric continued unperturbed.

"Is that why you were so apprehensive of us?" Ogdor asked.

"Hmm. Yes. Unfortunately, I've made a very poor investment choice."

Zidorah rolled her eyes. "And that choice would be...?"

"The Royal Apothecary Society."

The mood in the room darkened.

"Ya gave gold tah dose poison-peddlahs, mon?" Jan'ree burst indignantly.

"It's a fair bit more complicated than that," the priest spoke calmly, leaning back in his seat. "I knew somebody--"

"Of _course_ you did."

"Zidorah, please. At any rate, I knew an Apothecary named Marcia Langdon. She worked in Research and Development and had some very interesting experimental recipes that required rare ingredients. The deal was that I provided the capital and when the potions would be complete, she would split the profit evenly with me."

"So, to repeat Jan'ree's question," Ogdor interjected, "you gave _gold_ to those _poison-peddlers_?"

"Well, to be fair, most of the potions I invested in were beneficial in nature. Unfortunately," Eric looked down in shame, "Marcia was one of Putress' most ardent supporters."

"The betrayal happened before she finished the potions, didn't it?" Zidorah guessed.

"Quite so. Got herself killed rather thoroughly in the battle to retake the city. Which wouldn't have been so terrible if most of the gold I invested were not borrowed from some... shady individuals."

"So is that why you're hiding in this hole?" Zidorah gestured towards the room.

"Hey, I live here!" Eric retorted.

"I'm sorry. You're hiding in this _charming_ hole," Zidorah corrected herself, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"What else would you suggest I do?" Eric asked belligerently.

"Skip town," Ogdor replied.

Eric stared blankly at this, but as they started explaining their reasons for finding him and they requested his help to find his other two friends, his disturbing, rotten smile made a slow, but steady return.


	5. The Giant

A thick silence enveloped the blood elf, orc and troll as they waited in Eric's office. Zidorah was fidgeting slightly, tapping her staff on the ground. Jan'ree was meticulously peeling some sort of fruit he'd taken out of his bag. Ogdor had taken to polishing his weapons, either out of boredom or out of a dedication to looking as frightening as possible for every living moment of his life.

"I still don't see," Ogdor groused unhappily, "why you can't teleport us to Dalaran."

Zidorah sighed. Ogdor was exceedingly fond of repeating his complaints over and over, even when this did not accomplish anything.

"I probably could have, had they not moved it. As things are, we would end up at the bottom of a very deep crater."

Ogdor scoffed.

"Moving a city," he muttered. "What nonsense."

"Dunno 'bout dat, mon. I t'ink it be pretty impressive, yah?" Jan'ree grinned, taking a messy bite out of his fruit.

"Oh, it is," Zidorah nodded, her eyes taking on a distant gaze. "It's fantastic. The kind of spells that had to go into it and all the mana that had to be expanded just to uproot the city... ah, yes, the mana..."

Ogdor and Jan'ree looked distinctly uncomfortable at the expression on Zidorah's face. Even though the new Sunwell had stemmed the blood elf's physical addiction, she still fell back on her old patterns of behavior out of some sort of psychological inertia.

Jan'ree cleared his throat.

"So, we be searchin' fo' dat human girl, yah?"

"Oh, yes." The mage nodded, her attention once again anchored in the present. "Yes, Rovana."

"Da one ya don' get along wit', ain' she?"

"Mm. Yes."

Jan'ree nodded and grunted.

"Don' see why ya don' wan' me t'reatenin' 'er a l'il bit."

Zidorah pursed her lips.

---

"Eric got you, then?"

Zidorah turned to look at the human woman that had appeared in the doorframe. Deidre had gone to refill her tea, since the previous night's reckless drinking had left the high elf quite dehydrated. The woman was shorter than her, with dark, wavy hair that fell elegantly over the shoulders of her blue robe. She had cold grey eyes and pale skin, as well as a regal posture that made Zidorah think she might be nobility.

"I'm sorry, how rude of me..." The human gave a restrained smile and a slight curtsy. "I haven't even introduced myself. Rovana Callidian."

"Ah."

Zidorah had heard of the name Callidian. They had once been a venerable noble house, having great influence in Dalaran, especially since they prided themselves on magical prowess before all things. She'd also heard that they'd fallen by the wayside in the past few years. As she would find out from conversations with Rovana, the human woman was the last living heir to the esteemed family and thus, the Callidian family name would disappear once she either got married or died.

"I am Zidorah Duskweaver. A pleasure to meet you, Lady Callidian."

"Ha, ha, hear that, Rovie? She called you 'lady'."

Zidorah cringed as Rovana was joined by none other than Eric. By the annoyed looks the woman was giving him, she did not like Eric any more than Zidorah did at the moment.

"You!" The elf sprung to her feet and pointed accusingly at Eric. "Return me to my family immediatly, you ruffian! I am a Duskweaver, I will not stand to be intoxicated and kidnapped by the likes of you!"

Eric blinked at this outburst and turned to look at Rovana, as if she would share in his disbelief. Rovana snorted.

"If this starts a diplomatic incident with Silvermoon, I will insist to be called as a character witness!" she proclaimed.

"Aww, Rovie. I'm touched." Eric placed a hand over his chest and sniffed.

"As you should be. I consider it only honorable to ensure people such as you ultimately end up where they belong," Rovana nodded gravely.

"I'm assuming you don't mean 'on a pile of gold in a mansion near a nice quiet village'," Eric muttered, looking crestfallen.

"No, I mean the Stockades."

"Of course you do," he sighed theatrically. "I fell right into that one."

The human male slunk off, leaving the two women alone in the room.

"Ah-- he isn't dangerous, is he?" Zidorah asked.

Rovana started laughing hysterically.

---

"...That was because of how those two met," Zidorah clarified, "an encounter which seemed to indicate that Rovana was the dangerous one. But I'll tell you about that another day. Anyway..."

---

Zidorah discovered that she actually had a great deal in common with Rovana. They were both members of minor nobility, both interested in the arcane arts and both were, for the first time in their life, on their own.

They were also both Revv Brittlecog's assistants now, so Rovana thought it best to ease Zidorah into the job by giving her a tour of his labs.

"Master Brittlecog's experiments deal mostly with mana generation," the human mage explained, gesturing widely around the spacious lab.

The previous had been filled with various animals with mystical powers (she'd even spotted Eric's tankard in there, which only made her stomach flop uncomfortably at the memory of the last night). This one seemed chock-full of bizarre-looking contraptions of gnomish design. Several machines were working, sputtering and releasing smoke, but the air was also thick with mana, making the hairs of Zidorah's arms stick on ends.

"Thomas Bree is the one who builds most of these, at Master Brittlecog's indications," Rovana continued. "You'll meet him soon-- or right now. Hello, Thomas."

Zidorah turned, curious-- and blanched. Before her was the tallest specimen she'd seen of _any_ sentient species.

---

"Ogdor, this guy was huge, as big as _you._" She was gesturing widely with her arms, shaking her head in disbelief. "Maybe even _bigger_."

Jan'ree and Ogdor stared at her for a long moment, then at each other. Finally, Jan'ree snorted and Ogdor shook his head.

"Unlikely," the orc leaned back and folded his arms dismissively.

"Yah, mon, dey don' make humans dat big. I seen 'em, dey be smaller den blood elfies," Jan'ree agreed, shaking his head.

"I swear, you'll meet him one day and you'll understand perfectly why I did... what I did next," she sighed.

"What did you do next?"

---

Zidorah gave an undignified squeak, took a hurried step back while simultaneously leaning away and tripped on the hem of her robe, falling in a heap on the ground.

---

"Stop laughing! I injured myself!"

---

Thomas was, indeed, tall by human standards. He was tall by elven standards, as well. He was tall by most standards, regardless if they did, or did not, pertain to height.

He was also handsome, for a commoner, with a neatly trimmed black beard and short hair. He had a placid air about him and he politely (and pointedly) ignored Zidorah's reaction to his appearance.

"Hello, m'lady." He bowed just low enough to be considerate. "Thomas Bree, at your service. I am Master Brittlecog's Chief Engineer. I understand you are the new lab assistant?"

"Yes. Zidorah Duskweaver," she added her name meekly.

"A pleasure," he said with a brief smile, then turned to address Rovana. "Where is Eric?"

"Probably gone to swindle some old widows out of their stipends, again," she answered, shrugging.

Thomas gave a long-suffering sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"One of these days, Rovana, I'm going to quit this lunatic asylum."

"I hope I'm not included in that assessment."

"Not on good days, at least."

They both smiled at each other for a long moment. A much too long moment. Zidorah cleared her throat and the too seemed to break off the soulful stare... for now.

"Right, so... I'm going to hunt down that little rat." Thomas excused himself and left.

"I guess that's everyone," Rovana commented airily. "Master Brittlecog, Eric, Thomas, Deidre and me. We'll be the ones you'll be working with. Any questions?"

"Yes." Zidorah cleared her throat again, this time feeling slightly more awkward. "What were _your_ credentials?"

---

---

Author's note: the long break was on account of exams. It took me a while to get back into the story, but once I got started, it was surprisingly easy to get into it. I hope this unexpected hiatus didn't scare all you guys off.


	6. The Sheep

Eric returned soon enough with a grouchy Forsaken mage in tow. She had a limp and muttered to herself and she had probably looked quite ravishing in life, if the parts of her face that were not decomposed gave any indication.

She also looked slightly familiar to Zidorah, though she couldn't place the woman.

"Dory, you remember Larissa Meadowbrooke, yes?" Eric asked, gesturing vaguely towards the woman.

"Larissa Shadowbrooke, now," the Forsaken croaked unhappily.

Eric sighed. "Yes, yes... And you surely remember Zidorah Duskweaver."

Zidorah realised suddenly that she _did_ know Larissa. The limp and the state of decomposition were new, but the sour tone and the equally sour expression remained just the same. This was one of Rovana's acquaintances from Dalaran.

"Oh, yes," the elf nodded, "I'm sorry. I almost didn't recognise you without the... uh... you know."

"The cat," Eric supplied, looking distinctly smug.

"Yes, the cat," Zidorah echoed, looking a few shades paler than the two Forsaken in the room.

Larissa Shadowbrooke clicked her tongue-- or whatever was left of the appendage.

"I just can't imagine why Mitzi hated you so much," she muttered, giving Zidorah a suspicious and calculating look.

"Dere be a story behin' dis," Jan'ree snickered, elbowing Ogdor.

"Oh, you're not going to hear that one," Zidorah stated coldly, regaining some of her colour. "I have told you enough embarrassing details already about my life before I met you two, I will not relay every wretched, nightmarish encounter I had with Larissa's foul, demon-possessed beast."

"It was a housecat," Eric supplied at Jan'ree and Ogdor's questioning looks. "Sweetest little thing alive, until an elf entered the room. I'm afraid she was distinctly vitriolic towards Dory, here."

"_Eric!_"

Zidorah's hiss and scowl put a quick end to that conversation, however.

"Alright, then, back to business," Eric sighed. "Miss Shadowbrooke is willing to make a portal to Dalaran, but... well, she demands payment up-front."

"Of course she does," Zidorah muttered, her mood still dark, "she _knows_ you."

"Yes, so... I was hoping you would be willing to... hmm..." Eric tapped the ends of his fingers together, "sponsor this trip?"

The three companions looked at each other and were getting ready to say something, all at once, but Eric raised his hands to stop them.

"And might I remind you that I've done my part in this; I found a mage willing to send us there, did I not?"

They had to reluctantly agree that he had.

"Fine. What is your price?" Ogdor addressed the Forsaken mage.

Larissa named a sum that made the elf, troll and orc give Eric positively withering glances.

Eric shrugged, sheepish, but they put their money together and managed to pay the exorbitant fee.

---

The story of Zidorah and Larissa Meadowbrooke's cat, Mitzi, is, perhaps, not as insignificant as Zidorah would have wanted it to be. For many years, Zidorah was plagued by the pampered housepet, who went out of its way to maul her and her clothes. And, although she'd never admit it, the elf spent an inordinate amount of times thinking about ways to destroy the small, furry fiend that marred her otherwise perfect life. Not that she would have done anything, Light forbid, but that did not mean she was not tempted.

At any rate, Zidorah was happy that elves were so long-lived. That meant that one day, she stood a chance of living down the humiliation that the wretched animal inflicted upon her in Dalaran.

---

As soon as they stepped through the portal and onto the smooth pavement of Dalaran, Eric did something he hadn't done in a long time and took in a large breath of air.

"Ah, well, my sense of smell isn't what it used to be, fortunately, but this place definitely smells like home!" the Forsaken proclaimed over-dramatically.

"A bit chillier than I remember, though," Zidorah muttered, right after sneezing twice in a row. The Undercity was cold, as well, but it was closed off. Here, biting winds freely swept the streets.

"Oh, quit griping." Eric accompanied his words with a dismissive gesture. "Listen, you go find Rovie's aunt. I have some people I need to track down."

"Now, why do I have to do that?" the blood elf snapped. "I'm not some lackey you can order around!"

Eric sighed, realising his mistake. "Listen, Dory, I'm sorry. I just meant..."

He gave Jan'ree and Ogdor a leery look, then switched to Thalassian and spoke a few words which seemed to illuminate Zidorah. She nodded and replied in Thalassian, gesturing for him to go.

The Forsaken took off, leaving two very confused Hordelings behind.

"Wat' be wit' da secrets, mon?" Jan'ree asked, narrowing his eyes.

Zidorah giggled.

"It's silly, really. The first time they met, he made some unfortunate comments and she polymorphed him into a pig."

"A pig?" Ogdor repeated. "Aren't sheep more... traditional?"

"Oh, yes," Zidorah agreed. "Maybe if he'd stopped talking sooner, he would have gotten off so lightly. To be fair, though, it might just be that he has bad luck with that particular family."

---

Rovana Callidian had been a regular visitor to the Eventide for the past few months, since moving to Dalaran. With the death of her father nearly half a year prior, she'd been the ward of her aunt and had thus moved away from the sheltered estate on the edge of Dalaran to the city itself, mostly to have her education closely supervised by the aforementioned aunt.

She'd taken to walking most evenings to the fountain (unaccompanied, which was something of a novelty still) and sit there, reading some light novel until the light grew dim. Dalaran was a safer city than most and her aunt had voiced no objections to this schedule that Rovana kept.

As she was on one such promenade, however, she'd had the unpleasant surprise on raising her head from her reading to glance at the fountain to see a young man fishing. That, by itself, was not unusual; many occupied their time by fishing in the fountain and even she'd tried it once, but what unerved her was what that man was fishing _for_.

As he reeled in his line, a glowing purple stone with a string of coins, hanging off it as if magnetised, was at the end of his hook. She realised with dismay that the stone was bewitched to attract silver and gold.

Before she could contain herself, her book was promptly snapped shut and her legs carried her in a most decisive manner to the shameless young man who robbed from the fountain.

"You, there!" she barked.

The man swung around, clearly expecting a guard of some sort in place of the short, richly-dressed maiden he saw in place. He, himself, had an assortment of clothes that looked both expensive and extraordinarily gaudy. Such poor taste, Rovana thought, was to be expected of those of common birth who aspired to wealth.

"What do you think you're doing?" she continued in the same confrontational tone.

He looked at her for a long moment, then smiled at her in what he probably thought was a winning manner. Rovana was having none of that.

"Ah, milady," he bowed slightly, though not nearly low enough for Rovana's taste. "What seems to be the problem?"

"My problem is with a thief who would be so incredibly bold as to steal in broad daylight," she snapped back, pointing to the enchanted stone and the roll of coins still in his hands.

"Oh, this?" he raised an eyebrow looking down at his hand and renewed his smile. "My fair lady, as you said, a thief would have to be incredibly bold as to steal in broad daylight and, I might add, in front of witnesses."

"Quite so..." she said, though on more subdued tones. Where was he going with this?

"Oh, yes, incredibly. I am not a thief, milady," he explained, his smile fading slightly and his back straightening, business-like. "It is, in fact, my appointed duty to collect the Town Hall's due."

"You're a tax collector?" she asked incredulously, taken aback.

"Yes, indeed. And while many would say a tax collector and a thief are one and the same," he added in a jocular fashion, "I assure you my activities are sanctioned by the great city-state of Dalaran. A share of the money that is collected in this fountain has always gone to the Town Hall's coffers."

"Oh..." Rovana felt her cheeks burn slightly. "I'm quite sorry, I... hmm... I will take my leave..."

"It's quite alright. It's only honorable to interrupt wrong-doings, if one is able," he said with a faint, but superior smile.

Rovana muttered something and slunk off, intent on hiding in her aunt's library for the following three or four years to live down this embarrassment. She was not three steps away, however, when two burly Dalaran guards, attracted by the ruckus she'd started, walked towards her and the man by the fountain. They looked over Rovana's shoulder and one of them clicked his tongue and yelled:

"Great Light forfend, Wyliss, are you here on your tax collector act again? I swear, we'll lock you up in a hole so deep, not even Brittlecog's connections can get you out, much less your blasted silver tongue."

Rovana turned on her heels to see the scoundrel raising his hands in a placating gesture, just as the men passed her and continued towards the would-be tax collector.

"Now, now, boys, I'm just an honest citizen enjoying a nice evening of fishing."

One of the guards snorted, but they both stopped in their tracks as, in the next moment, just as they reached Eric's side, he was promptly replaced by a small, white, very dismayed-looking sheep.

They turned to look nervously over their shoulder at Rovana, whose arms were still raised from casting the polymorph spell and whose only outward sign of anger was a slight flaring of the nostrils.

"Well, he'll definitely be easier to arrest now," one of the guards whispered to the other.

The sheep still bleated rebelliously, however, and tried to bite the guard who reached out towards it, before turning around and attempting escape. As it turned, however, another spell flew past the guards and the delinquent sheep's feet became encased in ice.

"Good move," one of the guard nodded approvingly.

"How do we carry him back to the station, though?" the other questioned.

Rovana approached calmly, a different kind of spell flickering luminously between her fingers.

"Well," she drawled, "either he goes nicely, or I practice casting fireballs, next. I'm not terribly good with those, so you'll probably end up eating lamb for dinner."

The sheep stopped its struggling at that very moment and, meekly, gave one of the guards a desperate, begging look.

"I don't think that's necessary anymore," one of them said, laughing.

---

"...Needless to say, nothing Eric ever did after that ever improved her opinion of him."

"Huh. Wonda where da dead man gone to now?" Jan'ree mused.

"From a legal standpoint, I suspect it's better for us not to know," Zidorah muttered.

She did not know how right she was.


	7. The Archmage

Eric wandered the smooth streets of Dalaran almost in a daze. Though recently rebuilt, too little of the city had changed and he found this to his liking. Oh, certainly, this was the place he'd been brutally gored by demons and revived as a mindless servitor of the Scourge, but why let _that_ little incident mar his fondness for the city he'd come to think of as his home? Especially when he still had such good friends still living here...

He came to a halt in front of a stately mansion in one of Dalaran's residential districts. He sidled up to the door and knocked. A sour-looking old man answered, obviously a servant by his livery. It took only minimal persuasion to arrange a meeting with the master of the house; Eric always did have a way with words. Not in the poetic sense, maybe, but certainly in the devious, gently insinuating sense.

---

Archmage Gregory Denmore gave nervous little glances towards the door. Even through three walls, he could feet Eric's presence flooding him with anxiety.

"Did he say what he wants?" Denmore asked for the third time, shifting nervously.

"No, m'lord," the long-suffering servant answered, suppressing a sigh. "Perhaps it is merely a friendly visit."

"A friendly visit!" Denmore exclaimed theatrically. "When does Eris Wyliss ever make house calls without some horrid plan in mind?"

The servant did not answer.

"I suppose it is best you call him here," Denmore acquiesced. It had always been a strategy of his to invite guests into his lab. If a conversation veered into unpleasant territory, he could always pretend to be at a vital stage in his experiment and usher them out. And, also, because it made him look much more busy and important than he normally was.

Thus Eric was brought in. His appearence proved a shock to Denmore, however. Though the servant hadn't failed to mention Eric's divorce from life, the reality of the issue was something else to behold.

"Oh, my..."

"Yes, I know," Eric grinned mischievously. "As charming as I ever was, hmm?"

"Ah, Eric, quite good to see you... it's been... years, I think." Denmore took out a handkerchief from his robe pocket and dabbed at his forehead. When had he started sweating so profusely?

"Ten years, by my count," Eric agreed. "My, how things do change, don't they?"

"Hah, yes, yes, my friend," Denmore laughed nervously.

Eric casually strolled about the room as he spoke, studying beakers and crystals, gently tapping furniture and making appreciative noises at the quality of the wood. This seemed to increase Denmore's nervosity.

"I mean, things have obviously changed for me, haven't they?" Eric gave his jovial black grin again, the one that made the living recoil slightly.

"I-- I'm sorry--"

"Don't be," Eric interrupted with an indifferent gesture. "It's much better than living, really. I have not as much need for food, drink or sleep as I did before and thus I have more opportunity to expand my... business interests."

"Ah..." Denmore gulped nervously and leaned heavily on one of the tables.

"Besides, if business turns sour, it's easier to get patched back together than if I were still living," the undead priest added.

"Of course..."

"And what about _you_, Gregory? Life has been treating you well, I see." Eric turned to Denmore and continued effusively, "And you're an Archmage now! Quite an honour! A true testament to your skills, if ever there was! You must garner quite a bit of respect, I imagine."

"Ah-- yes, I--" Denmore gulped again, licked his lips nervously and straightened up, trying, perhaps, to look stately. "I'm doing quite well, thank you."

"A very impressive feat for someone who, a mere ten years ago, could not even complete his certification."

Denmore's relatively calm expression crumbled completely.

"I knew it! I knew it! You wouldn't be here, otherwise! You vile, vulgar little miscreant! I knew this was why you were here! No! No, I couldn't be certified as a mage! So?! So what?! Do you know-- do you know the things I've done for this city? Do you know the skills I've acquired? Do you know how much I deserve this title?!"

As he ranted, Denmore's face turned increasingly red and his breathing increasingly labored and he had to stop for air, even if it was obvious he had quite a bit more in mind.

Eric, for his part, managed to look completely astonished at this tirade.

"By the Light, Gregory, what is this all about?" the undead asked, looking genuinely surprised. "I was merely commenting on your progress since then! What did you think I was here to do?"

"I--" Denmore suddenly felt very foolish. Had he misjudged Eric? "I am sorry, but I've feared this scandal for a very long-- I am sorry for my outburst."

"Not at all," Eric shrugged. "I can only imagine the scandal, of course. You are right to fear it."

Denmore could say nothing more and merely nodded, sinking into a chair.

"I mean, should word get out, even a whisper-- good word, what if any of the old archives survived? Some curious little rat might poke his nose around and find all sorts of unsavory details from your student years-- Oh, don't look so worried, Gregory. For now, all _those_ little stories are locked up in here--" Eric tapped his skull, which gave a sickening hollow sounds, "--and Light knows I would only entrust these secrets to someone else in death."

Denmore's hand twitched at Eric's words, but the spell died on his lips when he realised Eric was too smart to walk into a potentially dangerous situation without a sound contingency plan in place. He sighed.

"Anything I could help you with, Eric?" the Archmage asked in a strangely hollow voice.

"Why, fancy you should ask," Eric grinned. "I was just on the look-out for someone to sponsor a trip!"

---

Eric left the Denmore mansion with a hefty pouch of gold on his belt. Unbeknownst to him, he'd just proven Zidorah's point; extortion was, from a legal standpoint, something they _were_ better off not knowing about.

---

Zidorah, much to her companions' surprise, had lead them straight towards the elegant spires of the Violet Citadel.

"Wat be da aunt's name?" Jan'ree asked, eyes boggling at the imposing building. Having grown up around the small and practical troll huts, he was completely mystified as to the purpose of these behemoths other species were in the habit of building. Perhaps because humans were so short, they felt the need to compensate by making their buildings exceedingly tall. Perhaps they were compensating for other things, besides height.

At any rate, Zidorah's answer floated over her shoulder, "Archmage Modera."

Jan'ree and Ogdor looked at each other. They had only a vague notion of Dalaran's leadership, most of it information that Zidorah had supplied them with. The name sounded somewhat familiar to both of them, though neither was exactly sure why.

"Impohtant lady, I tek it," Jan'ree commented.

"Oh, yes, one of the longest standing members of the Six," Zidorah replied airily.

Ogdor shot a questioning look at Jan'ree, but the troll shrugged and shook his head. The information did not reveal anything to him either.

"Wait here," Zidorah indicated to them as they came up to the entrance. "I will go and talk to her myself."

Ogdor and Jan'ree complied. They drew close to a wall and waited there, watching assorted adventurers of the Horde and Alliance pass by, receiving acknowledging glances from the former and suspicious looks from the latter.

But the minutes seemed to stretch, until nearly an hour and a half had passed and Jan'ree started wondering if boredom was a terminal condition. While Ogdor could sit still for hours at a time, the troll was more on the active side and patience was not a condition that afflicted him. Just as he threw baleful glances at the orc, envying his serenity, Eric appeared, shuffling along and giving Jan'ree something to distract him, at least momentarily.

"Ah, I see you've been waiting a while," the Forsaken observed unnecessarily.

"And where, may I ask, did you skulk off to?" Ogdor growled in return, demonstrating that Jan'ree wasn't the only one bored out of his mind.

"Just replenishing my funds," Eric replied with a shrug and a pat on his purse. By the heavy clink of coin, it sounded full of gold.

Ogdor only growled in return.

"Ya t'ink Zidorah ran inta trouble?" Jan'ree asked suddenly.

"Hmm? No, not really, I don't think. But gaining an audience with one of the Six is usually a bit time-consuming." Eric looked up at the Violet Citadel. "Still, Rovana and Thomas are the only ones intimately acquainted with Brittlecog's experiments and since nobody's heard from them since they left with the Proudmoore expedition, Rovana's aunt is the only possible link we have to them."

Jan'ree perked slightly upon hearing the Proudmoore expedition being mentioned.

"Did they fight at Hyjal?" Ogdor asked, just as Jan'ree was about to.

"I don't know. Possibly." Eric mulled on this for a moment. "They had a knack for hopeless causes. The fact that they left Dalaran, considered the safest city

in the world at the time, in order to join up with survivors and refugees in search of some mythical continent, proves they were not thoroughly invested in their own safety."

"But wasn' Dal'ran sacked by da Scourge, mon?" Jan'ree pointed out.

Eric didn't quite sputter, though he looked close to doing so. "Dalaran was a great city, filled to the brim with practitioners of the arcane! When I chose to stay, I made a calculated decision that should have ensured my survival."

"An' now ya rottin' on yah feet," Jan'ree snickered.

"A coward's reward, indeed," Ogdor added.

Eric looked just about to shoot off a nasty comment when his jaw suddenly clamped shut and he flung himself behind Ogdor. The orc blinked at this and looked to see what had spooked the undead so. Zidorah was coming, accompanied by an unassuming human woman in light armor.

The human woman-- Rovana's aunt, Archmage Modera, they guessed-- had grey hair styled in a bun and moved quite gracefully, despite her age. As they approached, Zidorah introduced her, confirming who she was.

"Pleased to meet you," Modera said, bowing her head regally. "And hello again, Mr. Wyliss."

An undignified squeak was heard from behind Ogdor's bulk, and not even the squeak of joints that many undead emitted. No, this was the squeak of a child caught hiding from an angry teacher and Eric made no move to reveal himself even after being discovered, prompting Ogdor to take a generous step to the side.

Eric froze in place under Archmage Modera's level gaze.

"Ah-- Oh, m'lady-- er, ma'am-- Archmage-- ma'am-- I wasn't hiding!"

The three other Hordelings watched in amusement as Eric's smooth facade crumbled completely when faced with this calm, almost kindly human female.

"I wasn't implying you were," the Archmage responded, perking an eyebrow. "I was merely greeting you. Surely, you have recovered fully from our last... encounter... Yes?"

"Yes. Yes, ma'am, absolutely, recovered, yes, yes, ma'am--"

By this point, it was obvious that whatever had happened during that encounter must have been something more than merely a polymorph spell, if it traumatised him in such a manner. Eric's panicked babble was interrupted by Zidorah giggle-snorting loudly. Eric threw her a sharp look. What happened next was, perhaps, a bit out of character for the business man, who was always so solicitous of his own well-being. But it happened, nonetheless.

"And that's enough from you," he hissed towards the blood elf, "Zidorah'maralla'diriminia Duskweaver."

Zidorah balked instantly. Archmage Modera's lip twitched almost imperceptibly. Eric seemed to come to the realisation that another polymorph spell was coming his way.

And indeed, in the next moment, where once stood a Forsaken priest, a rotting sheep took his place.

"_Never_ use my full name,_ ever_ again!" Zidorah shrieked, pointing an accusatory finger at the sheep, who seemed to be nodding rapidly. Then, just as quickly, the blood elf kicked said sheep, which turned back into a slightly more shaken-up priest.

"I say, either Mr. Wyliss needs to watch himself, or he needs to stop being around mages," Modera noted, with some amusement.

"Possibly _both_," Zidorah added angrily. She then shot the most frightening looks she'd ever given to Ogdor and Jan'ree. The orc merely blinked, but the troll raised his hands appeasingly.

"Ken't even pronounce dat name, girl. Ya ain't nevah hearin' it from me."

Ogdor nodded as well, while on the ground, Eric moaned. Changing shape so rapidly had given him psychosomatic stomach flips (because his stomach had not been alive in the traditional sense for nearly a decade) and it was probably for the best he did not get up right away. Vomit is, as a matter of course, disgusting. Undead vomit is something to be genuinely feared.

"Good." The blood elf calmed visibly and gestured towards the human at her side. "Now, Archmage Modera has graciously offered to make a portal for Booty Bay, where Rovana was last seen."

"She been tah Booteh Bey befo'?" Jan'ree asked, trying to picture this harmless-looking old lady in the racuous goblin port city.

"Vestiges of an adventurous youth, I'd wager," Eric muttered darkly.

"He learns slowly, doesn't he?" Modera sighed.

"More like he probably knows you don't kick a dog while he's down," Zidorah shrugged.

That, at least, seemed true, because despite the slight, Modera made no motion to punish Eric.

"Good luck on your journey," the Archmage said, instead, and with sparks of arcane light, a portal appeared, the edge just close enough to Eric to singe his robes a bit.

---

---

Author's note: The delay in updates has been mostly caused by apathy. Meh. But two of my favorite authors have updated their fics lately and that reminded me that I still had this thing to finish. Honestly, guys, we were supposed to be well on our way to finding Thomas already, but Eric keeps side-tracking me! (That's also the reason I was so cruel to him this chapter...) And now I have an idea for another fic, inspired by the info about the next expansion and I REALLY need to finish "The Good Old Days" because it isn't even supposed to be that long, in the first place. I think we only have two or three more chapters to go, max, and I must seriously get my ass into gear.


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